


Billy Hargrove in Seasons

by whorror_jpeg



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Familial Abuse, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, familial arguments and fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-07-31 01:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20106694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whorror_jpeg/pseuds/whorror_jpeg
Summary: Where we explore Billy Hargrove's and your relationship through the seasons.





	1. Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in the middle of the night, and I really like it. Yes, the first part is pretty short, but it get’s better, I promise.

You met him when the school year had restarted. 

He was a new boy, with a cool car, and a sleek smile. He was the ugliest beautiful thing to you. You tried to ignore him, the whispers and rumors around him, how _everyone_ besides yourself tiptoed around him. They either wanted to be in his good graces or cover him up. You realized you couldn’t continue to avoid him through the whole year; you shared half of your classes with him, and he consciously chose to sit directly behind you every time. You had even caught him waiting outside of the class when he saw you weren’t inside yet so he could continue this awkward game of him sitting behind you every chance he got. You realized _he_ was the one tiptoeing around _you_. With that newfound information, you decided to let him know you knew what he was doing, subliminally. 

One day, you pretended you couldn’t see the board, so you moved to the front, earning an annoyed huff from him through his nose.   
Another day, you sat all the way in the back, forcing him to have to decide whether he wanted to sit next to you or in front of you. He stared at you for a second, you knew even though you didn’t look up, and finally, he decided to sit in the middle of the room.  
You two hadn’t spoken verbally, communicating with what one another provided; small glances, and this constant sitting together, the fake unacknowledgement.

At the third month of the school year, a crisp, early November Monday morning, you were the one waiting for Billy. It confused you, so you stood by your locker, which, _coincidentally_, wasn’t too far from your class with him. The late bell rang, and you sighed, closing your locker. The door from the gym opened behind you, making you jump. You turned your head over your shoulder.

_Billy. _He looked broken. _He always had it, but never presented it. _

It was almost a scarier look for him than when he was pissed off; he was _supposed_ to be mister tough guy. He made eye contact with you and paused in his tracks before looking down shamefully and attempting to continue his path.

“Hey-” you say, loud enough to know he had heard it. He had passed you at this point, pausing and looking at you, “I’m here, if you wanna talk, I mean.” 

He continued to look at you with that god-awful pained face before dismissing you by walking to class. And that was all you needed, he heard you, he couldn’t say you didn’t offer it, and you could say you couldn’t do anything more. It didn’t, however, mean that it didn’t hurt, the way he had walked away. It was small, a tinge of hurt, but it was there.

A tiny cold spot in the warmth that came with interacting with him. You tried to shrug it off, taking a turn at sitting behind him, letting him know you meant it.


	2. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told y’all it’d get longer. also, can you tell i have a preference when it comes to seasons?

As the crispness of fall turned into the blistering cold of winter, Billy himself had seemed to get colder- more distant. There was no more fluff around the little game you played with him, and you didn’t get much regarding interactions with him anymore.

That was that, you assumed. An end of a small era. 

You packed your backpack for the last time until the new year, clearing out your locker, zipping up your bag, and beginning to leave.

“Hey, you uh, forgot something.”

You turned, facing the voice. Of course, it was Billy, he’d always been one to find easy ways out of situations. Ignoring you until the very last moment, for instance.

He had a holiday-themed card in his hand, nothing too special to anyone in particular, had they seen it without context.

“I don’t think I-”

“_Yeah_, you did.” he interrupted, shoving the card to your hands and walking away. You watched as he walked away for a moment, then turned your gaze to the card. Snowy trees stood in front of a warmly lit wooden cabin, the front saying _“holiday greetings!”_ in an uptight cursive font. You smiled anyway, turning the cover over and reading the inside.

It was simple, very Billy-like;

_Thanks, and I’m sorry. Happy holidays. See you next year. _

_-Billy_

Regardless, it was sweet, and thoughtful. Something he didn’t show particularly strongly to the public unless it was to get something. But a card? That was a new high for him. He was _almost_ normal.

When you got home that evening, you looked through your phone book, finding the Hargrove’s, and dialing the number.

A grumbled man’s voice answered, “This is Neil.”

You paused, it must’ve been his father, “Hi Mr. Hargrove, my name is (Y/N), I was wondering if Billy was around?” you ask politely. You can hear him sigh in an annoyed sort of way, before screaming for his son in _the most_ aggressive way you heard a parent call for their child, _ever_. It was like Billy was already in trouble, and he hadn’t even done anything.

You could hear bickering back and forth, volumes and tones fluctuating, before Billy answered the phone.

“Whoever it is, I’m not interested.” he sounded like he’d growl if he wasn’t so… _exhausted_.

“It’s (Y/N).”

A moment passes of pure quiet before he replies with an, “Oh. Hey.”

You sat quiet again, coming up with what you wanted to say, “I wanted to say thank you. The card was really sweet of you.”

“Yeah, it’s not a problem.” you can almost hear his shrug. It was like he blew it off, even though you knew how he felt about it; he wouldn’t have done it if it didn’t mean something to him. 

“Did you wanna hang out at all over the break?”

Well. That was surprising. You definitely didn’t expect it, and you still thought of him as an asshole, but _progress was progress _and you’d allow it, for now, anyways.

“Yeah… I’d like that.”

For a bit, that was that. A couple weeks had passed, the few days after Christmas and before New Years since that small conversation before you found yourself on the phone, calling Billy’s house again, inviting him over for a movie. He accepted, and was over within a half hour.

You heard his knock on the door and opened it quickly, giving him a small smile. _He looked nice_. He always presented himself nicely, but he looked more… casual. He had a regular white t-shirt on, tucked nicely into his belted jeans, even some sneakers, rather than the boots he often wore. You let him in, his comment about how the house smelled like popcorn making you laugh lightly, “That’s cause I made some.”

You closed the door and watched as he looked around, “You’ve got a nice house.” he says quietly.

_Who was this Billy?_ Billy was loud, provocative, outgoing; a recognized aggressive extrovert through your school. This Billy, he was _shy_, almost, and quiet. 

“How was today?” you ask. He turned, replying that it was fine and boring. Uneventful. The interaction was awkward, even as you led him to the living room.

He sat on the couch, “Where’s your folks?” he asked.

“Mom’s out of town and Dad just left, he works nights. Did you want anything to drink? I’ve got coke, tea…”

He looks back at you and smiles, “Coke’s good, thanks.”

You retreated back into the living room, a bottle of coke and two glasses of ice in your hands, setting them on the coffee table next to the bowl of popcorn.

“I rented a few movies you can pick from. I tried to keep in mind of what you would wanna watch too…” 

You showed him the movies, seeing him smile more, “Alien sound okay?” he asks. You nod, and took the movie, putting it into the VCR before sitting on the floor next to his legs. You could feel him jump every so often and it made you laugh, seeing the hard exterior of him crumble in front of you.

It started with his hand catching your hair. You turned, seeing what he was doing while he apologized. You told him it was okay, and with that, he tested the waters, it seemed, and it ended with him full-fledged running his hands through your hair, twisting it through and around his fingers absentmindedly while watching the movie. In turn, you tested him too, finding a comfortable place on his leg to rest your head.

The movie ended, and he asked if he could smoke outside. You nodded, taking him to the backyard, sitting on the swinging chair that hung on the porch after putting on a heavy jacket. It hadn’t snowed yet, but there were signs that in a few short days, Hawkins would be covered in the thick, fluffy substance. He sat beside you, lighting up and inhaling deeply. The hand closest to you rubbed against your knuckles slightly, and when you didn’t flinch away, he intertwined your fingers with his. It made you smile slightly, enjoying the way you shared warmth through each others hands. 

“What time do I need to go home?” he asks softly. That seemed like the only way he knew how to talk to you, and how to handle you. 

You shrug, “Whenever. My dad gets home in the morning, eight.” you reply, looking at the two of your hands. You can see him nod through your peripheral, “Can I ask you something?” 

He looks up, blowing smoke through his nose. You took that as a yes.

“Why do you even…” you paused, looking at him directly, “_this sounds harsh_ but, associate with me?” you shake your head, confused. He shares your expression, and before he can say anything, you interrupt, “I don’t think I’ve seen you go out of your way to be nice to anyone. And it’s _just_ nice, there’s no showing off, or toxic masculinity… what’s your endgame?” 

It takes him a moment of looking at you, thinking, stringing thoughts into coherent sentences before he gives an answer, “I don’t have one.”

He looked lost, like he really didn’t know why he was there at, _now eleven_ in the night, holding your hand on your back porch. And, honestly, that was all that you needed to hear.

Billy looked forward again, finishing off his cigarette and standing, keeping his light grip on your hand. You follow him up, and there’s a small tension. He tells you he’s going to go home, and despite the tension, you take the hand you’re holding and put it around your waist, wrapped your arms around his neck, and just _hugged_ him. It was simple. You didn’t understand why he had tensed up so bad at first. But, after a while, he relaxed, and gave into the hug, standing there for a while and even enjoying it. You let go, and stared at him for a bit.

“Have a good night, Billy.” you say quietly. He still hadn’t let go of your hand, and in turn he rubbed his thumb across your knuckles. He looked up to you from his gaze on both of your hands, paused, searching your face, before leaning in and kissing your cheek. Blood flooded them in a gentle craze.

“Goodnight, (Y/N).” he whispered against your cheek.


	3. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof.

The few days before coming back from winter break after hanging out were uneventful. The two of you had seen each other every once in a while, continuing to watch movies at your house, at one point even going and meeting up at a small, late night café to get hot chocolate together while it was still cold out.

He had begun to slowly open up to you, both physically and emotionally. In truth, he could act like a regular teenage boy when he was comfortable. He laughed at stupid things, like fart jokes, and other childish humor that made you smile. Because, at the end of it, _it was Billy Hargrove giggling like he was seven again._

He had talked about his biological mother here and there, relaying fun stories and inside jokes he had with her. You knew she was out of the picture; there was definitely a difference between _Susan_ and _Mom_. You hadn’t had that conversation yet. If he was ready, he’d talk. You kept that reasoning when he’d magically appear on your doorstep with a bruise or strange red markings every once in a while, or called with a strained, choked voice. 

You weren’t stupid, or oblivious to what was happening, but in fear of him becoming upset with you, and losing this person you cared for _so_ dearly, you didn’t talk about it with him. He obviously knew he could come to you, so you’d let him build up to it.

He had gotten more handsy, but in the purest form. His hands were always on you. He played with your hair, held your hand, and when you two were on the couch, he’d get bold enough to cuddle; his head in your lap or on your stomach. 

It seemed that he too was terrified of losing someone so close to him, still tiptoeing around you, not wanting to talk about certain things. And with that, meant there wasn’t a label for the two of you. In school he was still Billy; minus how he’d try to woo girls and how often he’d get into unnecessary fights. He was never vocal about you, however, like he wanted to keep you hidden away. Was he _embarrassed_ that someone like _him_ would be… friends, with someone like _you_?

In truth, that thought hurt, but you didn’t blame him for keeping you a secret. But you, you had seen a different side of Billy that you were sure no one else had seen. If you had told someone, then the purity of that, the complete trust and warmth of the relationship you two had, would disappear. And you couldn’t let yourself break Billy Hargrove’s heart, _ever_.

He was late for movie night. Even after calling. At first, you figured he had to get gas or felt like picking up snacks. At one point you even thought he was ditching you, or something came up and he couldn’t call you. But when an hour passed, you had called, and no one answered, is when you started to worry. Really worry. You called again, and this time, Max had answered. She had picked up a couple of times, and Billy explained that she was his step sister (even though at first he joked that she was adopted). There was arguing in the background.

“Hey Max… is Billy there?” you ask.

“He’s in trouble right now.” she says in a hushed tone. That was weird. Before you could ask another question, the sound of a door slamming in the background traveled through the phone and Max quickly responded, “He’s leaving right now.” 

The line clicked._ What in the world was going on at the Hargroves?_ It worried you sick, but, in ten minutes, your doorbell chimed. It was Billy, you realized after opening the door. But Jesus, what the _hell_ happened to him?

“Billy?” you asked quietly. His eyes were red, puffy. His cheek and nose sported fresh, dark red marks, his lip busted and nose chapped with dried blood. You put a hand to his healthy cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn’t noticed had gone lose before he all but tackled you, gripping onto you like a vice in a tight hug. His hands fixed onto your shirt and sobs wracked his body. You slowly brought your hand to his hair, petting it as he hid his face into your neck. You craned your neck and kissed his cheek, being careful to not hurt the forming bruise. Your other hand fell onto the side of his rib cage, trailing your nails lightly in a calming manner while hushing him softly. 

“I-I don’t wanna go home tonight-” he blubbered, receiving a nod and another hush from you.

“It’s okay, Billy, you can stay over, okay?” You push his face away from your neck, hands cupping his face and wiping his tears as he wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt. He kept his gaze low, chest still rumbling with cries he had built up as tears still poured from his eyes. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, letting your lips linger for a bit, feeling him calm down.

He follows you inside, sitting on the all-too-familiar couch with a sigh, rubbing his eyes free of the salty water. You left to the kitchen, grabbing a rag and wetting it in the sink, bringing it out to him after. He gave a gracious look, then looked back down, wiping his nose and lip. You perched yourself on the coffee table, reaching to hold his hand, running your thumb over the palm of his hand.

In the gentlest voice manageable, you ask, “What happened, Billy?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it right now.” he mumbled.

You sigh, “You say that, and then never talk about it again. Billy, you came to my front porch crying and bloody. I deserve some insight, don’t you think?”

“(Y/N), I said I don’t want to right now-”

Your voice grew desperate, “Then _when_?” 

He looked up to you, brows furrowed in a sad look and mouth slightly agape. With a burst of confidence, a sense of it feeling right, you moved his hair from his face and cupped his cheek, pausing before you leaned in, kissing him gently. As he did with anything physically new, he tensed a bit, and,_ like always_, responded back. He was firm, gripping the back of your head, fingers threaded through your hair. You broke the kiss, resting your forehead to his, eyes closed and fingers lightly curling against his jaw. The light scruff he had acquired over the past couple of days scratched at the skin of your fingers. His hand had travelled to the side of your neck, thumb grazing tenderly against your throat.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Billy, I’m just trying to _understand_.” you breathe against him. He nods in understanding and leans away from you.

He tells you about everything, and a lot of it, you were right about. 

“My mom left when I was younger, and… my dad was the reason for it. He started this new family hoping it would be this-” he laughed, “fucking _American apple pie_ family and somehow forgot that I’m still here. I can’t stand Max cause she’s just the goddamn show of how my dear old dad drowned everything we were out. And _every time_ I think I’m coming around to her, _I remember_, I remember the shit that he’s doing and I just can’t stand her more…” He breaths, almost gasping, “And my dad- _he’s a piece of work_. Anything ever happens that makes him mad? It’s always _‘Billy you’re such a fuck up’_ and _‘I wish I didn’t have a son’_ and_ ‘You’re such a piece of shit’_.” his voice cracks as he begins raising it, and the tears are back in his eyes, “And I can _never_ be good enough for him because all he sees is the woman who left him in me- and, (Y/N), _I can’t deal _with him hitting me every time he’s pissed off.” He ends, bawling into his hands loudly.

This was yet another part of Billy you had yet to meet. And while it didn’t excuse his behavior, it explained it, and proved his humanity. But you _hated_ seeing this broken shell of the underlying sweet boy you had come to know.

You stand, hugging his head to your stomach and he wraps his arms around you while you pet his hair. 

“I’ve got you, Billy. It’s okay.” you whisper to him.


End file.
